


Turgid

by MonkeyBard



Series: Holiday Handful - Five Fics for the Festive Season [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeyBard/pseuds/MonkeyBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prompt fic for the holiday season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turgid

**Author's Note:**

> Original post: 18 Dec 2011  
> Prompt from methylviolet10b: Amanuensis, gingerbread, foible, **turgid** , solecistic. Use as many or as few of those as inspires you, in one fic or many. Double giggle points if you work in the original phrase behind the meaning of amanuensis, "slave at hand."

John grimaced in pain and bit back a string of invective. Bloody ice. Bloody pavement. And now, bloody palms to go with them. He bet he'd bruised his hip in the fall, too, damn it. His leg hadn't been aching before, but it would be soon after hitting the pavement that hard.

He tried to steady himself to stand up, and hissed in a breath. "Ow! Fuck!" His left wrist protested the movement and the pressure.

Sherlock reached out to help him up and steadied him once he was on his feet. "Let me see."

"You are _not_ collecting torn skin samples from my hands." They were two blocks from home when John slipped and fell, so the prospect of tissue samples wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

Sherlock endeavoured to look hurt by the accusation although John could tell he'd been thinking it. "Do you need to see someone? You've sprained your wrist."

"When did you get your medical license?" snapped John, equally annoyed by Sherlock's spot-on diagnosis, his throbbing wrist, his aching leg, and the stinging pain in his palms. "I've got stuff at home; I can clean this up there."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. Now let's go. It's freezing out here."

It wasn't the nicest way to end the evening, but he would survive.

"You should have been wearing your gloves."

"Stuff it, Sherlock."

They arrived at Baker Street without further incident. John limped up the stairs (Damned leg.) and immediately went into the bathroom to clean up his torn hands. The third time he'd dropped the antiseptic wipe in the sink, Sherlock said, "Let me help."

John's shoulders slumped. He hated feeling helpless, even -- or perhaps especially -- when it was over something as minor as this. He gave in grudgingly. "Thanks."

Sherlock's hands were gentle as he washed the scrapes clean with saline and patted them dry with a sterile pad. His head was bowed over his work, and what John could catch of his expression was intent.

John frowned. He could feel the stroppy mood taking over from the pleasant one he'd carried since the pub. Physicians made the worst patients, and John was no exception. He looked for somewhere to focus his irritation. "This bathroom is starting to look like a poorly maintained A and E. Bandages and blood in the basin, and wrappers on the floor. Ow."

"Sorry." Sherlock applied antibiotic ointment and then carefully placed large sticking plasters over both of John's palms. That task complete, he finally looked up. "How's your wrist?"

John turned his left hand (It just had to be the left one, didn't it?) over, although he could already tell it was bad. "I should get some ice on it. It's swelling up." He frowned again. Perfect. He still had Christmas cards to address, too. It was his own damned fault for leaving them so long.

He looked up and met Sherlock's coy gaze. He knew that face, but that didn't mean he knew what that face portended. "What?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Your wrist is inflamed."

"Well, yes," answered John, his temper short. Not that his flatmate deserved it. He was irritated with himself for falling. It hadn't been Sherlock's fault.

"It's puffy."

"Yes. What are you--?"

"It's enlarged."

"Sherlock."

"Engorged."

John chuckled despite the ache in his wrist.

Taking it as encouragement, Sherlock went on, a small smile playing about his lips. "It is bulging."

That one elicited a snort of mirth.

"Turgid."

John giggled outright at that and decided to play along. "Distended."

"Ballooned."

"Expanded."

"Tumescent."

John burst out laughing. "All right, you win."

Sherlock smiled, a hint of pleasure, a hint of smugness in the curve of his mouth. "Better. Now, let's get you that ice."

"Ice to solve the problem started by ice. There's irony there."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but John held up one bandaged hand to forestall him.

"Ice first. You can play more word games later."

"Promise?" challenged Sherlock.

John shook his head. A child. He was living with an enormous child. Fine. Two could play at that game. "Guarantee."


End file.
